


things that go to make up a life

by boltguiding (mayerwien)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Domestic Fluff, Dysfunctional Family, Fishing, Hans Christian Andersen references, Happy Murder Family, Lots Of Metaphors Because Will And Hannibal Don't Know How To Talk To Each Other Like Normal People, M/M, Murder Family, but still with a slight canon-typical Sense Of Omen And Doom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 21:03:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11608911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayerwien/pseuds/boltguiding
Summary: We couldn’t leave without you,Hannibal said.You won’t have to,Will replied, and that was how the story began.(or, the one about a family that runs away to a little forest house in Denmark, where they learn about mermaids in fairytales, veiled references to things left unsaid, and writing endings.)





	things that go to make up a life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celestialanne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialanne/gifts).



> (I know this runs extremely counter to your current interests, but I literally started this for you way back in 2016, but then I got stuck huhuhu. AND NOW YOU'RE SHIPPING AN EXTREMELY CUTE NON-TOXIC RELATIONSHIP WHERE THEY SOLVE CRIMES INSTEAD OF COMMIT THEM, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU)
> 
> Fic title from “Home by the Sea” by Genesis, and the poem quoted throughout is, of course, "The Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot.

_Let us go then, you and I,_

_When the evening is spread out across the sky_

_Like a patient etherized upon a table—_

 

\--

 

“Why Denmark?” Abigail asks, once the plane has leveled. The second the seatbelt sign winks off, she unlatches her seatbelt and exhales, like she’d been holding her breath the whole time.

“The land of fairytales, where anything can happen. I’ve secured a place for us there,” Hannibal replies.

Will, whose damp hands are gripping his armrests, notices the word _place._ That he didn’t say _home._

Then Hannibal looks at him and adds quietly, “It’s in the countryside, near the river Gudena,” and Will thinks he should’ve known that already, that Hannibal doesn’t need to say things to make them understood.

 

\--

 

For something that’s been pulled out of thin air, the cottage is astonishingly well-furnished. Whoever filled it was clearly familiar with Hannibal’s usual taste in décor; there are none of the usual stuffed animals and wooden picture frames one would expect from such a rugged setting, but instead tall bookshelves and strange, delicate curios from still-farther countries. It’s a spacious house, too, with three bedrooms, a fireplace so vast it almost feels illegal, and a porch facing the path to the riverbank.

Abigail sets her chin. “I suppose this’ll do,” she says coolly, climbing the stairs to claim her room.

 

\--

 

Hannibal tells them to take their time adjusting, there’s no need to rush into their new lives. However, it’s not a week before he finds work at a small bookshop in the city. “There is enjoyment in all kinds of work. And I find I miss the hustle and bustle of urban life,” he confesses in his lilting voice, when Will asks.

But some nights Hannibal comes home wearing a different shirt than the one he left wearing that morning, with a bag of ingredients for beef bourguignon, or steak-and-kidney pie. Neither Will nor Abigail asks him any questions then.

 

\--

 

The first month, Will is plagued by nightmares. Not about anything he’s done, but about his dogs. Buster, so tiny he disappears into leaf piles, snowbanks, mountains of laundry. Big Harley, who looks tough but hides under the bed during every thunderstorm.

Winston, probably sitting by the door right now, wondering why he hasn’t come home.

Will sees them lying in a neat row on his living room floor, scraps of fur fluttering from their bones like dead leaves—and always, he wakes choking on his own tears, with Hannibal standing in his bedroom doorway, looking somehow lost for words.

 

\--

 

Things that go: their names.

At work, Hannibal is already Egil Hjort. Abigail, on the other hand, chooses her new name like a weapon. “Renee,” she decides, after a day of Googling. “Meaning ‘reborn.’”

Will picks _Andersen,_ an unusual first name—but Hannibal understands the significance. “You want to write the story,” he comments. Will says nothing.

They play the game awhile, pretending to be the Hjorts. But eventually they stop, at least at home. _Will,_ Hannibal says, each time the name warm on his tongue like a question—or a promise. Will hasn’t figured out which it is yet.

 

\--

 

“Do you believe in mermaids, Will?”

Will, up to his knees in the river, checks his reel and raises an eyebrow. “The kind with talking crabs for friends?”

“Ah. No, the roots of this story go back to Assyria. A goddess accidentally kills her mortal lover, and to punish herself, transforms into a fish. But her beauty is too great to vanish completely, and she remains half-woman.” Hannibal closes his sketchpad. “Interesting how the story changed over time. A goddess wishing to be animal, became a mermaid wishing to be human.”

Will casts his line upstream. “Either way—poor fish.”

 

\--

 

_And would it have been worth it, after all,_

_After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,_

_Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me—_

 

\--

 

Abigail decides not to go back to school, but instead becomes an assistant at a hair-and-tattoo parlor. One of those flowers that blooms in adversity, Will thinks, watching her come down the stairs every morning with a different elaborate braid.

Will gets a job as a psychology teacher at the nearby folk school, introducing Maslow’s hierarchy of needs and positive reinforcement to adults who never got high school diplomas. In return, his students teach him Danish words, enough that he and Hannibal can have simple conversations at home, and he can do groceries and swear at the occasional bad driver.

 

\--

 

Things that go: Abigail’s hair.

The stars inked on her ankles are constantly expanding into new constellations, so Will supposes he should’ve known it was just a matter of time. Still, his heart twists when she walks through the door that evening, with oxblood-red lipstick and her feathery locks snipped all the way up to behind her ears. She’s wearing one of her black wool scarves, which she’s stopped using to hide the scar and which are now just part of her wardrobe.

Hannibal’s mouth narrows slightly, but his eyes never leave hers. “Beautiful,” he pronounces finally, and she smiles.

 

\--

 

“Tell me, Hannibal,” Will says the second time Hannibal asks, the corner of his mouth quirking, “what has so sparked your fascination with mermaids?”

“Just Hans’ mermaid in particular. Once upon a time, she gave up her voice, just to dance a pretty dance for a prince.” Hannibal dashes his small bowl of chopped onions into the frying pan. They sizzle when they hit the oil, and Will hands him the wooden spoon without even thinking about it. “And every step, a knife in her heel.”

_But still,_ Will thinks later, she traded song for dance. One rhythm for another.

 

\--

 

Will finally teaches Abigail to fish, just like he dreamed about. The Gudena gurgles past them, and a ferry chugs along bearing people who wave merrily, and there’s sunlight caught in Abigail’s hair. Will adjusts her grip and shows her how to cast; she’s a quick study, and soon enough they’ve caught dinner.

They clean and gut Abigail’s trout in the kitchen, Will’s blade slicing through the soft silvery belly. A sudden chill runs through him, and he shudders and puts down the knife.

“What is it?” Abigail asks.

Will shakes his head. “Nothing. Someone just walked over my grave.”

 

\--

 

Things that go: his apologies.

Will hears Jack and Alana survived that night in Hannibal’s house. Closing his eyes, he can still see the glass-covered pavement, the blood thinning out in the rain.

As he sits down to write to them, Will imagines the aftermath of their escape, the confusion that ensued. He imagines his friends in some quiet diner, hands wrapped around coffee cups, not making eye contact as they whisper _but_ _we trusted him._

He signs the letters and tosses them into the fireplace. The flames lick his words into char, and then down to nothing at all.

 

\--

 

Abigail comes home from work one night the proud owner of a brand-new tattoo gun. Will congratulates her, and she tips her head slyly, asking, “So can I practice on you now?”

She’s at least half-joking, so she looks surprised when Will actually says yes. They do it by the fireplace, Abigail cross-legged on the carpet in front of him. When she’s finished, Will studies the bullet on the inside of his left wrist, satisfied.

“Why that?” Abigail puts her fingertip to his skin.

“In some ways, it’s our beginning.” Will opens, closes his fist. “Our once upon a time.”

 

\--

 

“Did you know Denmark was the first country to legalize same-sex marriage?” Abigail asks one evening.

Will glances up from his stew. “Okay?” he says, at the same time Hannibal says, “Actually, Queen Beatrix of the Netherlands signed the bill first.”

Abigail looks at them like they’re idiots. “I’m going to bed,” she says in a disgusted tone. As she passes Will, she mutters what sounds like, “and if you both were normal-smart instead of crazy-genius-smart, maybe you would too.”

“Mood swings are common in girls her age,” Hannibal says mildly, after she leaves. Will just forces himself to nod.

 

\--

 

Will’s Danish is getting very good, his students tell him. By now he’s picked up not just the requisite range of basic phrases, but also a couple of amusing idioms. Being caught _skægget i postkassen,_ “beard in the mailbox,” means you’re facing a tricky dilemma. When someone says _spis lige brød til,_ “eat some bread,” they mean _calm down._

But perhaps the strangest thing Will’s learned is that the word _please_ doesn’t exist in Danish. To attempt an approximation is considered rude. It’s best, the students explain, to instead say clearly what you want, and then to say _thank you._

 

\--

 

_Streets that follow like a tedious argument_

_Of insidious intent_

_To lead you to an overwhelming question..._

 

\--

 

“Most people think the mermaid a lovesick fool.” They’re sitting on the porch, with a bottle of cherry wine and the evening surrounding them. “That turning her back on her kind is a moment of weakness.” Will waits for the inevitable elaboration.

Hannibal leans back. “They don’t see it is her moment of strength. Her choice. Taking the story into her own hands, she transcends.”

“I think that’s a matter of opinion,” Will argues. Hannibal regards him calmly.

“What kind of story do you want this to be, Will?” Will doesn’t answer; just turns and goes back into the house.

 

\--

 

The truth is, Will knows the mermaid’s story better than he lets on.

The mermaid can kill the prince, slay him with the witch’s dagger. If his blood covers her feet, her legs fuse back into a tail; she dives back into the ocean, free.

But this is never the ending. The mermaid chooses to dance for him until she can no longer. The mermaid chooses to break into foam, because—

_Because._ No matter the ending, it all comes down to the reason why.

Will wonders, if he lets go, whether he too will break into foam on the waves.

 

\--

 

Will can count the times he’s been in Hannibal’s room on one hand. Alone here now, he’s struck by its neatness—half-finished sketches on a table one of the only signs of its inhabitant. Touching the bookshelf, Will remembers a different bookshelf from long ago, one with a ladder below and a skylight above.

Taking off his shoes and slipping under the covers feels second nature, like this room has been his all along. He decides to read something while he waits, so he leans back against the headboard with Beckett—his feeble attempt, he supposes, at a tension-dispelling joke.

 

\--

 

When Hannibal comes in for the night, he doesn’t look surprised; merely gets under the covers, lying down next to Will. “Not that I am averse to this—quite the opposite,” Hannibal says, “but…may I ask why?”

Will moves closer until their foreheads are touching, then closes his eyes. “I was curious. As to what would happen.”

Hannibal chuckles, his fingers drifting up to card through Will’s hair. “From this moment on, my dear Will, a great many things can happen.”

Will has a long list himself, but he decides to start at the beginning. He does not say _please._

 

\--

 

Will’s gazing out at the sparkling ocean, thinking. _“Jeg har det som blommen i et æg.”_

“Do mermaids hatch from eggs?” Hannibal’s pant legs are rolled to his knees; he peers down into the water, at the small crabs scuttling through the sand.

“Hell if I know. _Let us go then, you and I…”_ Trailing off, Will watches an incoming wave form.

“Prufrock.” Hannibal sounds amused. “A love song. Are you seducing me, Will?”

“See previous answer. Didn’t pay much attention in English lit.” Will steps into the wave’s path, flinging his arms wide, and lets it drag him under.

 

\--

 

Underwater, silence is a different creature altogether. It becomes full of muffled sounds, echoes from unknown places. Maybe the echoes are memories, Will thinks—moving in and out of the spaces in the world, leaving us and finding us again.

He does remember the ending of that poem now. _Till human voices wake us, and we drown._

Things that go: the feeling of being trapped. The fear of breaking apart like foam on the water. Endings he never wanted.

The ocean opens before him, at last, and Will swims up through it, to break through the surface into the afternoon.

 

\--

 

_There will be time to murder and create,_

_And time for all the works and days of hands_

_That lift and drop a question on your plate;_

_Time for you and time for me,_

_And time yet for a hundred indecisions,_

_And for a hundred visions and revisions,_

_Before the taking of a toast and tea._

         - T.S. Eliot

**Author's Note:**

> English translation of the Danish phrase that Will says at the end, "jeg har det som blommen i et æg": literally, “I feel like an egg,” which is a way of saying "I feel like I belong" or "I feel like I’m at home."
> 
> Each vignette (apart from the excerpts from the poem, obviously) is a drabble of exactly one hundred words. I made some pretty bloody cuts (heh) to achieve this, so I’m feeling triumphant.
> 
> The Danish alias Hannibal chooses for himself is significant; “Egil” means “respect” but can also mean “fear” or “horror” if I’m not mistaken, which I think he would be amused by. And “Hjort” I just happened to find on one of those lists of surnames, and the second I saw it I was like HAH because it means, well, look it up.
> 
> ALSO YOU KNOW WHAT’S REALLY WEIRD, I picked "Prufrock" as the poem Will quotes at the end solely because the only lines from it I remembered were “Let us go then, you and I” and “Till human voices wake us, and we drown,” and I thought they were both appropriate. I did not remember that the poem coincidentally also has references to mermaids, and I absolutely did NOT remember that it contains the line “There will be time to murder and create.” Kismet~


End file.
